ZerOes Read Free Page B

start.”
    She sits there, quiet for a second. Finally, she says, “You’re telling me this is your house. That what you’re telling me?”
    â€œI’m telling you this is your house.”
    Blink, blink. “What’d you just say?”
    He drops the keys in her lap and claps his hands, thrilled by having taken her by surprise. The woman’s a rock. She isn’t surprisedby anything . All his life she’s been five steps ahead of him. But not this time.
    He hops out of the car and yells for her to follow after.

    Inside the house. Big foyer. Spanish tile. Steps made of some kind of redwood going up to the second floor. He takes her right to her favorite place: the kitchen. This one has granite countertops, stainless steel appliances. DeAndre doesn’t know much about that, but the real estate agent said that’s what everybody wants. He understands why. It looks nice. Feels nice, too—the counters are cool to the touch, clean and smooth. Like he could lay his head on one after a hot day.
    Moms walks through real slow, real cautious, like she’s afraid if she moves too fast the whole thing will come down around her ears like it’s made of playing cards. “This is an expensive house,” she says.
    â€œYou don’t know that.”
    â€œI do know that. I know who lives in Mill Valley. Rich white people.”
    â€œMiddle-class white people, Moms.”
    â€œThey’re rich to me. And I thought rich to you, too.”
    â€œI got money now, Moms.” He figured this conversation would come. He swallows a hard knot and steadies himself. “I got a good job now.”
    â€œWhat kinda job?” Now she’s studying him real good. Way a cat studies a mouse. That’s how he feels, too—like a mouse pinned by a heavy paw.
    â€œI work with computers.”
    Now her hands are on her hips. “What kinda computers?”
    â€œThe kind with a keyboard and a monitor.” Before she can say it, “I know, I know, smart-ass. I’m doing some programming, okay? It’s good money. Shoot, good money doesn’t even cover it.” He sees her suspicious look, pulls it back a little. “I got a good deal on the house. Foreclosure-type deal. A . . . a . . . whadda they call it? Short sale. Low interest and all that.”
    DeAndre neglects to mention that he’s got the kind of money you could spread out on a bed and roll around in the way a dog rolls around in its own mess. Enough money that if he ever lost any of it, he could be like, Yo, whatever, I’ll just go buy more .
    She’s still got that look. Like she doesn’t believe him. Like she’s picking him apart with a fork and tongs the way you shred meat.
    But then her expression softens and a big goofy smile spreads across her face and she crashes into him with a big hug. “I always knew you’d make something of yourself,” she says.
    He kisses her brow. “Come on, Moms. Let’s go upstairs, check out the bedrooms.”

    The master bedroom’s damn near as big as the whole downstairs of the house on Nogales Street. His moms does a slow orbit of the room, whistling low and slow like she’s seeing something she just can’t believe. Each whistle followed up by a little mm-mm-mmm .
    DeAndre laughs.
    But his laugh gets cut short.
    Out the window, he sees something that doesn’t make sense. Past the pool, past the patio furniture and the built-in Weber grill, he sees a black round something. Like a bowling ball covered in fabric. Hiding in the shrubs and vines next to the pretty purple flowers.
    A radio squelches outside.
    DeAndre’s palms glisten with cold sweat. It’s five-oh. The cops. It’s the cops . That’s no bowling ball. It’s someone’s head . A helmeted head. A cop in SWAT armor.
    â€œHey, Moms,” he says, trying to stop his voice from cracking, trying to stop the panic from leaching out.